


Ursa Major Arcana

by shiphitsthefan



Category: Charlie Countryman (2013), Hannibal Extended Universe - Fandom, The Big C (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, BearDogs, Hannibal Extended Universe, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mage Lee, Magic, POV Alternating, Rating May Change, Shapeshifting, Werebear Nigel, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-27
Updated: 2018-02-28
Packaged: 2018-09-20 07:50:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9481730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiphitsthefan/pseuds/shiphitsthefan
Summary: Nigel is a Wehr on the run. Tired of the subjugation of his kind, he saw a chance, engineered an opportunity, and escaped his most recent and cruelest master. Danger has never been far behind Nigel, however; even now, hunters track him down, chasing him through the forest. After all, in a world that has lost its charm and is rapidly depleting its magic, an uncontrolled shifter is dangerous.No one seems to have told this to the mage hiding in the woods.





	1. Nigel I

**Author's Note:**

> I was talking to [Llewcie](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Llewcie/pseuds/Llewcie/works) the other night and posited the idea of Actual Bear Nigel, and we're in the middle of [Hannibal Cre-Ate-Ive](http://hannibalcreative.tumblr.com/)'s [#HannibalOdyssey](http://hannibalcreative.tumblr.com/post/154688733799/we-love-the-show-canon-we-love-our-rarepairs-the), so here, have a Beardogs fantasy AU.
> 
> Hang on to your brooms, folks. Prepare for take-off. Anticipate sporadic updates. Expect turbulence, but also more fluff than your pillowcase has room for. (Also no one dies, because death is stupid.)

He hasn’t seen a forest since he was a child, but Nigel--currently barreling through the underbrush, trampling ferns and flowers underfoot--doesn’t have time to stop and admire the trees now. Maybe, if he survives this, he can come back later. It certainly won’t be hard to retrace his steps.

There’s a _whirrr-snap-click-twung_ behind him, and Nigel ducks just in time to avoid the arrow. Another goes whistling past his ear; a third brushes his cheek on the other side, the barbed shaft slicing it, but not imbedding. Nigel’s glad the trio of Buchars behind him are poor shots. Either that, or they’re too stupid to aim at the target on his back. He thinks it’s probably a little of both.

Mud goes flying as Nigel skids around an enormous tree. Regardless of how terrible the Buchars are with the mechbows, he’s tiring quickly. Granted, that’s mostly his fault; Nigel’s been eating barely enough of already small portions, rationing the rest out to the other poor bastards stuck at Muskrat.

He had to get sick. It was the only way out.

But Nigel hasn’t run in a long time, and this was the part of the plan he hadn’t precisely thought through. All that really matters is that he’s unfettered for the first time. Not really free, but the details aren’t especially important. If he dies now, at least it will be a choice made for himself.

Risking a glance behind him, Nigel discovers that there is only one of the hunters remaining. The other two are probably circling around--at least, that’s what Nigel would do. It’s what he did before Muskrat, when all Nigel had to worry about was the Chiffre and his battlefields.

And then, he’d gotten old. Too old to run properly now, anyway. Now is more important than then, though Nigel isn’t sure what comes next. There’s never been an after-now.

Nigel pushes himself to keep running. He doesn't know how long the Buchars have been chasing, but his joints tell him it’s been longer than Nigel can handle, especially in his weakened condition. If he doesn’t stop, then Nigel will get...somewhere. Maybe green, like the forest he can’t afford to appreciate as he clambers on. His back stings and aches; the places where the Verger silver laid still burn, even with the brand long gone.

He stumbles, and the first arrow hits--Nigel knew it would, that his luck couldn’t hold forever. It buries itself in his shoulder, barbs sinking like fish hooks, pulling and tearing every time he moves his arms.

The second finds his forearm, and so does the third, one from each side from the Buchars that circled around. They’re closing in now. Nigel doesn’t care.

Pushing back up to his feet, he leaps and starts running again. There’s a fourth that hits, piercing his side; the arrow's shaft catches on a branch and rips down his torso, and he roars in pain. The silver tips are beginning to affect him, and Nigel is starting to feel sluggish. He thinks that maybe it’s time to turn around, to face death head-on, to take them along with him to the pit.

Suddenly, just as he’s slowed down in preparation to stop and attack the Buchar behind him, Nigel smells arcana in the woods. It’s unmistakable, though unfamiliar, and certainly unexpected. His first master smelled like the sea, like waves and red and music; this one…

He inhales deeply as he turns, adrenaline pumping. This mage still smells like sulfur and sage, just as his master had, beneath it all: the scent of the arcana, of the inferno. But there’s a sweeter note to it that Nigel can’t place, laced with mud and bone.

Nigel runs for it, craves it, knows he’ll hate himself for heeding the arcana’s call later, when he isn’t out of his head with bloodlust and drugged arrowheads. For now, Nigel just slams toward the scent, dodging trees, leaving blood and ruin in his wake. The Buchars fall far behind him, though their poison still runs through his veins.

In his haste, Nigel nearly bowls the arcan over. He stops himself just in time, though it’s less of a stop and more of a stagger.

The arcan is not a sorcerer, and Nigel is relieved, because sorcerers are cruel. This is a monk, hair shaved close to his head, cloaked in the green of the forest, quarterstaff in hand. Nigel tries to focus, but his vision is beginning to blur. All Nigel can truly discern is an overwhelming sense of peace, of warmth and growth.

He stills, overwhelmed. Nigel’s never smelled compassion from an arcan before.

Instead of approaching him as Nigel expects, the monk kneels and stares. “Ursa,” he says, and Nigel doesn’t know why he sounds so awed. Surely he’s determined that Nigel is a Wehr, a shifter, a freak. Good for nothing but fighting and following, serving and enduring, not that he minds the fighting part so much. It’s the rest of it he despises.

If Nigel didn’t feel like he was about to die, being knelt for would probably be more appealing.

“Ursa,” repeats the arcan, quieter now, and he holds out his hand for Nigel to sniff. Nigel’s head is swimming; every time he blinks, the world dims. But the arcan is strangely inviting, and he smells so _nice._

Nigel hopes the growl translates as a terse greeting and not a threat, but it’s the best he’s got right now. It doesn’t matter what the monk smells like; Nigel didn’t escape just to chain himself somewhere else.

His ears twitch-- _movement in the tall grass, the Buchars, but the angle’s all wrong_ \--and Nigel looks down at the arcan one last time. This is fine; this will do. At one time, perhaps he could have called him friend. No better reason to die than for a friend’s protection. Some might even call it noble, were it not Nigel.

_whirrr-snap-click-twung_

He rears up on his hind legs-- _pulding pit,_ Nigel thinks, _that pulding_ hurts--and the arrow meant for the arcan rips through Nigel’s torso, instead.

It doesn’t matter, though; he’s still going to kill whoever shot that mechbow.

Nigel bounds off, claws unsheathed, fangs extended, and tackles the hunter to the ground. His paws dig into the man’s chest and crack open his ribs, but Nigel’s mouth kills him first. Sinking his teeth into a human neck, ripping and tearing and shredding, reveling in the sound of prey gurgling and spluttering their way to death in their own blood-- _this_ is what Nigel was made for. _This_ is his purpose, his birthright.

Viscera trails from his jaws as Nigel’s legs buckle beneath him. It’s been so long since he had a raw, righteous, reckless kill. The other two Buchars don’t give him even a breath to enjoy it in, rushing him, shouting, silver knives drawn.

They don’t make it. There’s a _whoosh_ in the air behind him-- _the quarterstaff, slicing, creating space_ \--and then an all-too familiar crackle. Nigel hasn’t heard anyone draw the arcana in a very long time, heard the sound of static forming from seemingly nothing. The resounding echo is new, though, as is the rift that arcs like lightning in the ground. There’s a vibration beneath Nigel’s knees, and then the forest floor simply swallows both the hunters up.

Nigel’s chest rattles as he breathes. Now that he’s stopped moving, the pain has more than caught up with him. He falls back to his forepaws, bracing himself, head drooping.

“Pulda,” the arcan hisses, and his hands feel strange in Nigel’s fur. Not bad, simply...different. “I didn’t see you were hurt,” he says, easing Nigel down to the ground. “I was so excited to see you that I forgot to see why you were even here.”

He closes his eyes as the arcan continues rambling; none of it makes sense, but it’s soothing, at least. Thin fingers and a sharper blade work the barbs and the silver out of Nigel’s body. All he can smell now is blood, which is welcome in its own way. Nigel’s breathing deepens, and the arcan scratches behind his ears and between his eyes in between removing arrowheads. It’s been so long since someone petted him. He should’ve run off and gotten shot a long time ago.

Eventually, the arcan finishes and asks, “Can you shift back? I don’t think I’m up to patching up a fully-shaped bear, let alone carry one home. Though I’m perfectly willing to try.”

Nigel lets his body fold in on itself, crumpling and breaking and rebuilding and smoothing. As smooth as he ever gets, anyway. Too many battle scars, a map almost as old as he is, himself. He does manage to roll over onto his back without wincing. Let the arcan be curious about that later.

“Do you have a name?” _Or let him be pulding curious now. Pulding arcans._

“Nigel,” he answers, swallowing. He tries to remember the last time he spoke, and then realizes he can’t. “Yours?”

“Lee. Trust me?”

“Not a bit.”

The monk laughs softly. “I’ll just have to trust enough for both of us, then.” There’s a popping sound as a bottle is uncorked, and then there’s a hand supporting Nigel’s head and glass at Nigel’s lips. “Please,” says the arcan. “I promise you won’t wake up bound to me.”

Nigel’s voice is harsh and raspy, grating on his own oversensitive ears. “Rather die than be familiarized again.”

“I would never force that upon you.” The side of the hand holding the vial pushes Nigel’s hair out of his face. “This will knock you out so that I can cart your ass home without you laughing at me, because it’s bound to be hilarious.”

“Think you can handle me, tiny monk?”

“I very much doubt it,” Lee admits as Nigel finally drinks the potion, “but I haven’t made a fool of myself in a long time, so I welcome the opportunity.”

The potion tastes like the pit and works faster than Nigel expected. “You’re an odd one, Lee,” he says, slurring.

Lee chuckles again, stroking behind Nigel’s now human ears. “One is an odd number,” and Nigel thinks he should respond to that, but passes out instead.


	2. Lee I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're back! :D

Lee hadn’t been lying; there is absolutely no way he can handle a bear. Not to say that he hasn’t wanted to; for as long as Lee can remember, he dreamed of meeting an Ursa Wehr.

“It’s only a fairy tale,” the arcanite had told him. “Just a bedtime story for curious little arcans. The Ursa have been gone for a long, long time.”

But he’d never given up hope. After all, the Concilae had declared the Lupa Wehr extinct, too, when they had only gone into hiding. Lee was certain that the Ursa had done the same, had staked his entire _life_ on it by initiating into the Gahara. If he guarded the forests, he was certain to find one eventually.

Now, after hundreds of moons and endless nights of horrible aching loneliness, here lies Nigel.

Lee struggles to stop petting him. Nigel had pressed into his hand, seemed to crave Lee’s touch and enjoy it, but Lee does not have permission. He’s rehabilitated enough abused and abandoned animals to know how to approach one. Never a Wehr, though, but Lee imagines it to be a similar process. Hopes, anyway.

He can ask to cuddle later. Much, much later. Or, possibly, never. Lee sighs, then sets to work.

The gash on Nigel’s side is the worst of his injuries, jagged and raw and swelling by the minute. He’s gotten the worst of the silver out already, but Lee knows Nigel will feel the effects of it like creeping poison for several weeks to come. _Pulding commons,_ he thinks. _If only they knew how excruciating silver truly is._ Even his own fingers ache from the minimal contact.

There’s no time to do more than dress the wound, and Lee is afraid that he doesn’t have enough gauze with him. Peter was right; Lee really should’ve taken more training in the healing arts, learned spells in addition to potions and poultices.

“I know enough to patch up what needs patching,” Lee had insisted.

Peter had squinted, one squirrel perched on his shoulder and a mouse peeping out from under the neck of his robe. “What about the rest of it?”

“And put you out of business? I could never.”

Maybe if Lee takes a trip to the archives--but no, Nigel would hardly be well enough to accompany him, and he certainly couldn’t _abandon_ him. What if he ate one of Lee’s hendillos?

 _Inferness, what am I even supposed to_ feed _him? Do Ursa wear clothes when unshifted? Will he even_ fit _in the tunnels?_ Lee’s impulsiveness was bound to bite him in the ass eventually. Hopefully not literally. Or at least not threateningly.

Nigel’s shoulder and arms are easy enough to wrap, and Lee does his best not to enjoy the warmth of Nigel’s skin, and tries not to think about the muscles beneath his hands, and refuses to look at Nigel’s face. He’d start tracing his cheekbones, or playing with his hair, or any number of other terrible ideas.

The gauze bandages run out before Lee even gets to the gash on Nigel’s side, and he resolutely ignores how wonderfully soft his torso is, though he’s obviously not been fed well. If he focuses on the latter instead of the former, Lee might be able to get through this with his dignity.

At first, Lee takes off his cloak, thinking that he can simply tear it in strips for makeshift bandaging (and he really should have started on the largest wound first; Peter’s going to scowl at him on his next visit, Lee just knows.) But he’s going to need something to wrap around Nigel, or at least to cover his back. As certain as Lee is that there’s a wound there, he’s also certain Nigel doesn’t want him to see it. Yet another stream for them to carefully tread through.

He hesitates, then pulls off his shirt. Judging the amount of material available and finding it to be wanting, Lee begins to undo his breeches, as well as starting to mumble, “Don’t look down,” over and over. “You’re just naked in the same general location,” Lee says to himself. “It’s not like you’re naked _together._ For inferno’s sake,” and his dick is a pulding traitor, “he’s knocked out and you’re being creepy and _stop appreciating his perfect pulding body, Lee.”_

Toggle buttons are the enemy, Lee’s decided. They give him too much time to think when he’s undressing.

Lee starts tearing his clothes into strips, acutely aware that they need to get moving soon before the Buchars are missed and a search party is sent out. He’s escaped notice since before Buuc was built and has no intention of changing that now. A nomad Lee may be, but this is _his_ especially large forest to wander through. Death before surrender and all of that junk.

The wound isn’t clotting--perhaps it was deeper than Lee thought--and his hand shakes as he summons the silverfoil, making the stalks grow crookedly as they push up from the soil. He’s nearly spent arcana-wise after a day of resealing the hidden places on this side of the forest, and he still has vines to summon. Lee tries not to think about the possibility that they won’t make it all the way back to his home tonight, that they’ll have to take refuge in the woods, but he’s already so tired that it seems inevitable. There’s a single innervation potion in his pack; maybe it will be enough.

Stuffing the silverfoil into the wound goes haphazardly at best. The red fern looks more like a broken feather stuck into the ground, but the leaves are prickly and sharp, an ideal vehicle for stopping the silver’s poison from spreading immediately. Lee is as careful as he can be, but the silverfoil stings and burns when unprocessed. Nigel tries to shift away in his sleep, weakly swatting at Lee’s hand.

“It hurts,” says Lee, soft and low, unthreatening. “I know it hurts, Ursa, I’m sorry.”

His eyes blink open, still blurred with the haze of the drug. “‘S uncomf’able.”

Lee smiles at him. “Oh,” he teases, “I see. Pain doesn’t bother you, but heaven forbid your tummy feel funny.”

“‘S right. P’haps.” Nigel hums when Lee gives in and brushes his knuckles down the side of Nigel’s neck. “Tha’s be’er.”

“Do you like being petted, Nigel?” Lee keeps stroking his skin to distract him as he pushes in more silverfoil.

“Been a long, tha’s all.”

“I see.” The oozing has mostly stopped now, but Lee hadn’t expected Nigel to come to so quickly. Bears must have a higher elixir tolerance than the large stag in the forest. “I’m going to bandage this up now. Is that alright?” Nigel nods--he’s slow, exhausted. “That was very brave of you, shielding a stranger.”

He grunts as Lee passes the makeshift bandage beneath his back. “Smelt righ’.”

“Who? Me?” and Nigel nods in reply. “Does right smell like rotting tree? Because that’s what I had to crawl through this m--” Realizing exactly what he’s tying around Nigel’s middle, Lee puts his hand over the soil again and uses the rest of his expendable arcana to grow a small shrub of rosewinkle.

“Tho’t smelt rot. ‘N mud.”

Lee chuckles as he plucks light pink flowers and rubs them between his fingers and thumb. “I can’t think of many times I _don’t_ smell like mud.”

“You a dir’y boy?” asks Nigel, and Lee outright snorts.

“Only in my dreams, Ursa.” He glances up in time to see confusion wash over Nigel’s face. “You’re unused to that,” says Lee. Surely there are enough crushed petals in the wound to counteract any filth from Lee’s former clothes. “Being respected, I mean.”

Nigel swallows. “Jus’ a Wehr,” he explains. “Jus’ an ol’, old Wehr”

“Well,” Lee begins, “I’m just an old, old, extremely, horribly, _terribly_ old Gaharan.” He pauses bandaging long enough to card his fingers through Nigel’s hair. It’s the only silver Lee’s ever wanted on his skin. “So you’re in good company.”

“You’re n’ old.” It’s startling, Nigel’s fingers on his face. Lee can sense the buzz of latent arcana in his touch, and wonders if this is the only time he’ll know the way a Wehr’s trust feels, if Nigel only trusts him now because he isn’t thinking about it, because he’s under the influence of blood loss and whatever traces of the lampam potion are still in his system. “Gorgeous,” Nigel continues, then yawns and lets his arm droop to lie across his chest. “‘M tired.”

“I didn’t know I was so boring,” replies Lee, but Nigel has already drifted back into unconsciousness.

One last strip of cloth, and Lee deems it a good enough job for now. He can treat it more thoroughly once they’re back at his home. More than ever, it’s important that they make the return trip now, and in its entirety. Lee doesn’t want to draw more attention to them, but there’s no other option left but to draw the arcana for the power he needs.

He never was one for the gathered arts, preferring sympathetic magic and drawing from his own energy. There’s a balance to it that Lee finds elegant, especially considering the receding of the arcana. Too many machines already depend on it; let Lee depend on himself.

For Nigel, though, Lee is willing to make an exception. _Don’t get attached,_ he reminds himself. _It’s too late in life to make an attachment._

Regardless of his personal ethics, there’s an undeniable thrill and excitement to drawing upon the magic of the inferno, and Lee’s slightly giddy as he stands and takes up his quarterstaff. The bone is cool as it passes between his palms, snaps and carves and shimmers as it turns in his hands. Another spin, single-handed, and it smacks heavy into his other palm.

And then, time takes a breath. When it exhales, Lee brings it into his lungs, sharp and clean. His heart pounds as though he’s running, and then time catches back up.

Lee focuses, eyes still closed, until he hears the cracking of wood; nearby, a tree begins sinking into the ground. As the spot of forest consumes itself, the tree’s branches begin to bend and form into vines.

Cutting them takes more effort than he expected, but Lee was worn out before he even started. He melds the ends of the vines together to make one long, single rope. Lee’s only ever done this to carry an injured boar; he decides that information doesn’t need to be disclosed.

“Nigel?”

He stirs. “Arcan?” Lee shakes his head. So much for keeping that trust.

“Are you able to stand long enough to get on my back?” he asks, adjusting the crude litter over his shoulders, securing it around his chest. “It’s alright if not. I hadn’t expected you to be able to help, anyway.”

It’s a testament to Nigel’s strength that he can even hobble as upright as he manages. Lee permits himself a quick scan of his body-- _for wounds,_ he thinks, _only for wounds._ Nigel is miraculously still a bear, covered with thick silver hair and Lee is taking this man home and putting him in his own bed, which will then smell like Nigel, and Lee is having second, third, and even seventh thoughts about the wisdom of this plan.

But it’s too late to rethink now; he’s already helping Nigel situate himself into the vines on his back. Pulling his cape around them both--and congratulating himself on thinking to put it on Nigel to begin with--Lee shoulders and then reaches into his pack, pulls out the innervating elixir, and sets off further into the woods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to try and start updating a WIP every week, so hopefully you won't have to wait _too_ long until the next chapter.  <3


	3. Nigel II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember when I said that this fic would update sporadically? I apparently wasn't joking.

The constant slow movement and Lee’s deep breathing were enough to keep Nigel in more of a trance than truly asleep, but Nigel keeps his eyes closed all the same. He’s disgusted with himself for accepting the arcan’s care, not that Nigel is particularly interested in dying now that the immediate threat of it has been removed. Arcans just aren't known for being gentle, certainly not for being overtly kind or attentive; Lee's concern is a novelty, to be sure, and Nigel doesn't expect it to last for long.

He might not  _ intend _ to force bond Nigel, but arcans aren't honest with anyone, let alone themselves. Nigel has enough energy to fell Lee, he thinks, though he'd likely succumb to death himself in the attempt. If only Nigel had any compunction to strike Lee down. Maybe he's simply become used to a lack of agency—it's not like Nigel’s ever been free before, not really. Accepting a life of subjugation beneath an arcan is instinctive now, a cultivated trait.

His teeth grind together before Nigel can stop himself, lethal bones scraping each other, sharpening themselves. Considering Nigel’s head lies on Lee's shoulder, there's no way he didn't hear it.

Nigel anticipates a rebuke, then startles when Lee reaches back to smooth down Nigel’s hair, trying to soothe him. He relaxes again, and hates himself for that, too.

“Coin for your thoughts?” Lee asks. “Although I have no coins, come to think of it. Or really anything useful while we're out here in the woods.” He huffs a laugh; Nigel feels the vibration in Lee’s ribs. “I have some acorns, I th—no, no, wait. There was a depressed squirrel this morning.”

“Pulding  _ pit, _ do you ever shut up?” Nigel instantly regrets his sharp tone. It’s easier to snipe at Lee then it is to be pissed at himself, however, so he swallows down the bile burning in his throat from speaking out to an arcan.

Lee hefts his pack full of Nigel, and Nigel can’t decide if it’s on purpose, if Lee’s already showing his true colors. “You’re terrible at being rescued.”

“You’re terrible at rescuing.”

“I could just dump you off at the nearest shade tree, you know.”

Before Nigel can stop himself, he says, “But you wouldn’t.”

A long silence, and then, “No, I wouldn’t.” Lee’s fingers keep stroking through Nigel’s hair, almost remorseful, and Nigel can’t figure out why. It’s sobering, and another reason for Nigel to chastise himself. He lets go and slumps entirely against the bare skin of Lee’s back as the pain begins to creep back in. Being grumpy had been a decent distraction.

“I know, Ursa,” and there’s that pit-damned respect that Nigel doesn’t deserve yet again. The way Lee shushes him is comforting—not enough to keep him from mumbling swears into Lee’s neck, but nice enough. “We’ll be at my home soon. No more bumbling arcan incapable of properly carting you around. You’ll have a bumbling arcan trying out how to fix you up, instead.”

Nigel attempts to laugh, then winces, and does his utmost to pass out again.

As far as Nigel can tell, several moons have passed since they started walking, though he knows that isn’t the case. Time has never been anything measurable to Nigel besides  _ long _ , except when he sleeps, and then time is too short.

He never did manage to go back to sleep on Lee's back, not beyond a dazed sort of dozing; regardless, Nigel would’ve perked up at the sound of the rustling in the trees that he hears now.

“Arcan—”

“Yes,” says Lee, “I sensed it, too. Inferness, but I despise Buchars.” He sighs. “We’ll have to stop at one of my burrows for the night. I’m sorry.”

“Why? I’m the one who brought them here.”

Lee ruffles Nigel’s hair. Nigel swears he can feel it all the way down to his fur. “That was hardly your fault, now was it?”

“It...it was kind of my fault.” Arcan or not, honest or not, Lee deserves the truth. “Just wanted it to be over, yeah? Be hunted down and spirited off to take the good sleep.”

“Well.” Lee is quiet for another expanse of brush. He finally says, “I suppose that makes it doubly their fault, then. So no blame for either of us.”

There's a quiet sort of peace in not being pitied.

“Pulda.” Lee stops in his tracks turning his head from side to side. “I've gone and gotten us lost.”

Nigel frowns. “I thought you said you were the Gaharan of these woods.”

“That hardly means that the trees stay still.”

“...What?”

Lee hums, then decisively turns to the right, taking them through a large patch of brambles, because of course he does. “Trees,” he repeats. “They think they're hilarious. Nothing but puns and occasional relocating.”

“Flightier than a hwan?”

His laugh is beautiful, but entirely too loud when they're both lost and being tracked. “Thank Inferness that they don't snort like one. But yes, ruffled feathers and mud-mucking and all the rest.”

“So how do you know which pulding way it is to your house?” asks Nigel through gritted teeth. He can smell the blood in the wound in his shoulder.

“The forest isn’t  _ that _ obnoxious. Nigel?”

“Arcan?”

“Hold your breath,” says Lee. “Unfortunately, I’ll have to draw a third time.”

_ Unfortunately? An arcan thinks that's unfortunate? What in the heat of the pit?  _

But Nigel only growls, then does as Lee told him.

In all Nigel’s years of bondage, he has never felt the arcana like this. There's never been a music to it, a voice, a lyric whisper. Nigel still hears the crack, and feels the static prickle underneath his hide, but no taste of sulfur coating his tongue. It's unnerving, but simultaneously calming. His arms come up of their own accord, winding around Lee's middle, clinging to him. Beneath his palms, Lee’s abdomen stutters with his own breath.

_ ++What does it smell like to you?++ _ Nigel asks. Remembering that Lee can't hear him is bittersweet, though Nigel is ultimately glad for the ownership of his own thoughts.

Another heartbeat, and then Nigel hears a rip in the earth. He opens his eyes to look; the soil has parted, a bolt of lightning trapped beneath the ground, and a raised path to follow, like a mole’s road through the dirt

“Ah! There we go—” An arrow whizzes by. “—And there they are. Quick breath, Ursa. I have to—”

Nigel barely manages a shallow one before Lee curses and casts. He has seen spells from the inside before, but nothing like this, not a shimmering blur of air, tangible and real. If a non-arcan moving within the spellwell wasn’t a pulding death sentence, Nigel would reach out to touch it, to see if he could poke a hole in it, if that would disrupt the wall or dispel the whole thing.

A hole would help. Nigel might feel less smothered that way.

Lee’s breathing fast enough for both of them now, sprinting off through the trees so quickly that all Nigel can do is cling to him like a cub. Nigel suddenly realizes that they aren't invisible, like he’d thought. Instead, Lee is literally  _ cutting through the arcana itself, _ eluding time.

_ Pulda,  _ thinks Nigel, fascinated and frightened, neither of which he would ever admit to. _ How pulding old  _ is _ he? _

“Here,” Lee announces, practically gasping. “Blessed Inferness, but I haven't done that in at least several thousand moons.”

_ Ah. Really pulding old, then. _

Lee stumbles his way to kneel on the forest floor, and Nigel knows to get out of the litter before Lee has to say a word. He's lightheaded, but he can’t take a breath yet, no matter how much his lungs burn. Nigel collapses onto the ground just as Lee puts his palms to the earth; it rumbles beneath Nigel’s ear before a mossy hatch swings up. His vision is full of spots, but Nigel can still see the trail of dirt they’d followed melt back down beneath the grass and moss and detritus of the forest.

“Breathe.” Nigel gulps down air as soon as Lee inelegantly taps the end of his staff in his palm, letting it thud against something hollow. He’s on his knees beside Nigel quickly—Lee sounds like he’s panting as hard as Nigel is, which doesn’t make sense. Arcans aren’t supposed to be affected by the spellwell. “Are you alright?”

“I think I’ll live for the next few minutes, arcan, yes.”

Lee laughs, still breathless. “Glad to hear it, because we’ll need to climb down. Ursa, I'm sorry,” he says, hand on Nigel’s shoulder. The weight is a balm. “I’ve never had to worry about casting with a partner before. Not that we're partners, of course. That—that's not what I meant. Obviously.”

Nigel claws his way toward the opening, looking for a ladder, even as Lee continues to ramble. There has to be a ladder. Climb down, Lee said. That requires a ladder.

He keeps feeling around in the dirt walls. Still no ladder. Nigel does not have the mental stamina to deal with the fact that there  _ is no ladder. _

Lee keeps talking, only stopping when Nigel finally gives up and tumbles headfirst into the dark.

At least it's cool down here, Nigel supposes, and the ground is relatively soft, what for being ground.

“Are you alright?” Lee calls down. Nigel feels like Lee is going to be asking that question frequently.

He blinks up at Lee, who is only a head peeping over the edge of the entrance. There isn’t really anything to be said except, “I made it.”

“So you did. I really should've checked for the ladder first—by the pit, I  _ am _ a terrible rescuer, aren't I? Would you, um. Could you roll off to the side, perhaps?”

It takes some grunting and a substantial amount of hefting, but Nigel manages, and then there's Lee, landing behind him, though lightly and on his feet from the sound of it. Hands, as well, and Nigel’s too tired for that mental image.

He has no idea how Lee closes the hatch, but the somewhat-safe room plunges into darkness. Not for long, blessedly, as the faint glow of an arcanstone springs to life, and then a second, and a third.

Lee’s hands find Nigel’s back beneath the cloak, and his touch is so careful, especially around Nigel’s blistered and still oozing—

_ Pulda. _

“They branded you.” Lee’s voice is scarcely a whisper. “With silver, the silver brand, Verger, oh  _ Nigel.” _

He'd been so grateful for the cloak around him, for the way it clung to the brand that wouldn't heal without letting himself be familiarized again; without committing himself to a bond of consent; without letting Verger own him in more than body. But no one wanted a sick Wehr, and Nigel had made himself very ill, indeed. Except now he was alive, which would be fine if Verger hadn't sent more Buchars when he and Lee had killed the first search party.

Nigel hadn't even considered the danger he'd put Lee in by not telling him.  _ Pulding idiot, _ and he's not sure which one of them he's talking about.

“Why didn't you want me to know?”

_ Because I lost myself in your touch and didn't want you to go away. _ “Embarrassed.”

Lee strokes the side of Nigel’s neck. “I'll hide you. I promise.”

Nigel knows better than to hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously, though, 2018 is The Year of Ship Finishing Things, so chapter four shouldn't take a year to write. I hope.
> 
> Thanks for sticking around! <3


	4. Lee II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again, friends! :D

Verger. Specifically, Verger silver.

Pulding  _ pit. _

Lee has only ever heard of the silver brand before, and even then, the arcanites only covered it in their lessons briefly, going over it just enough to say that they had, in fact, done so. Learning about the concept and ancient practice didn’t matter beyond committing the historical record to memory. The silver brand was  _ beyond _ taboo when Lee was a young arcan, only beginning to learn the ways of the Gahara. No arcan had branded a potential familiar in ages—it wasn’t forbidden, but consent forced under duress was no longer believed to be a valid method of familiarization.

That was the declaration of the Concilae, at least. As far as the Gaharan were concerned, it was unusually and unnecessarily cruel. Wehrs deserved the same rights as arcans and commons both. No one else lived as closely with nature as the Gaharan, unfortunately, so most of the Concilae orders dismissed concerns about a Wehr’s bodily autonomy. Not even the other Vertisian class arcans believed that familiars were innately equal; their status was even lower than commons.

“The others used to think as we did,” an arcanite had told Lee when he was a child, “that Wehrs are held sacred and familiars should be family. It’s why we’re dying out and they’re still thriving. Everything depends on the support of the Concilae, Lee.”

“Except for the Vertisia itself, right?” Lee had asked.

The arcanite had only clapped Lee on the shoulder.  _ “Especially _ the green arcana.”

Lee had been ecstatic to leave the study of arcan politics behind. The whole mess made him sick to his stomach. Even the required crafting and imbuing of Wehr bands was uncomfortable, which made his personal decision to never take a familiar incredibly easy. As far as Lee was concerned, all silver was poison, regardless of tempering. Lee would rather die early than practically enslave another creature to share a life with. No attachments, not unless a Wehr approached him first, and even then, Lee would be hesitant.

(It also helped that Lee was infatuated with the seemingly extinct Ursa Wehr. Nothing to worry about that way, or so he’d thought.)

But there had been whispers of sorcerers studying the refinement of silver in the  _ opposite _ direction, making the element more potent and increasing the innate binding power held within it. Where Wehr bands were supposedly gentle, this new silver would be a painful reminder of a familiar’s place. Arcans spoke of it to each other at the Gatherings, each tale more fantastic than the last. Eventually, the idea of Verger silver had the same mythological quality to it as did the silver brand, itself.

Here is the proof, however. Here is the Verger order’s crest, burnt into Nigel’s back deep enough for the ridges to be visible through the fabric of what had been Lee’s clothes. Here is the perma-molten, oozing, bleeding coat of silver, casting a black shadow instead of the dull gray it should.

Lee has never scryed an aura that actually  _ hurt his eyes _ before.

There’s no healing this, not unless Nigel returns to whichever Verger sorcerer branded him and pledges his life and obedience. Lee can’t let that happen, but he can’t let Nigel suffer, either. Making the journey to Brother Peter’s isn’t optional anymore; as soon as Nigel can move on his own, he and Lee must seek Peter’s guidance.

Right now, however, Nigel needs as much comfort as Lee can provide. Lee has already depleted his innate arcana to the point of passing out, and he knows he shouldn’t be pushing himself like this, not even for an abused Wehr. Perhaps if Lee doesn’t use magic for first aid, or at least as little as possible.

Even as he thinks it, Lee knows he won’t deny Nigel any palliative measures, no matter the personal cost.

Nigel remains frozen beneath Lee’s fingertips, but he isn’t flinching away. “I have a kit,” Lee tells him. He can’t stop stroking him, a strange compulsion to comfort, even more than Lee usually has for wounded creatures. “It’s just over here—I won’t go far.”

Lee hasn’t been in this safehouse for months, but he assumes the shelves will still be stocked. Silverfoil patches; liquified rosewinkle and sterilized cloths; more gauze and better analgesics. Food, too, and Lee thanks past him for thinking ahead for once. Dried strips of fish and a hard-baked loaf. Jam and jarred water. They should be alright here, for a little while. Regardless, it’s imperative that they move on as soon as possible.

He takes a glance into the wooden chest. The woven mats and feather-stuffed blanket smells musty, but they’ll have to do. Lee figures Nigel won’t be picky about it right now.

“Arcan?” Nigel’s voice sounds harsh, and not from thirst. Lee figured he was like other large Wehrs: claustrophobic.

“It’s alright,” Lee assures him as he lays out the mats, one on top of the other, a crude bed. “I’m done. Just needed to set things up.”

“What things?”

_ I really need to watch my phrasing. _ “Nothing harmful. Well, I suppose the silverfoil may hurt, but there’s no way around that.”

Nigel chuckles; there’s no substance to it. “Everything in life pulding hurts, arcan, in one way or another.”

“You aren’t wrong.” Lee walks back over on his knees. There’s hardly a point to standing up in such a small space. “I’m going to help you move over here.”

“Like the pulding pit you are,” and Nigel stubbornly pushes off the dirt wall, rolling to his back, biting off a growl. “Where’m I going?”

“Just over here—Inferness, will you just let me pull you to bed?” asks Lee, sighing. “I’m not that weak.”

“Neither’m I.”

“But you  _ are _ in pain.”

Nigel ignores him and keeps clawing his way across the dirt floor.

It’s a struggle for Lee to not feel insulted, because Nigel’s overt distrust is hardly a personal slight, and he knows it. Were he in Nigel’s place, he wouldn’t place even a modicum of faith in Lee, either. More difficult than letting the wave of annoyance simply wash over him is having to sit back on his heels and watch an injured Wehr fight to move.

Given the silver barbs Lee pulled out of his wounds, never mind the brand on his back, Lee’s astonished that Nigel can move, at all. He shouldn’t have even been able to shift in the first place, both before and after they met, not branded like he is. A Wehr with such strength is unheard of.

No wonder a Verger wanted Nigel. Lee wonders how Nigel was acquired in the first place, indomitable and stubborn as he seems to be.

A grunt, and a snarl, and Nigel stops his slow creep across the ground. Lee’s frown deepens—Nigel is a few palms’ width away from the stack of mats, seemingly with no intention of getting on them.

“Do you need help?” Lee asks.

“I told you,  _ no.” _ Nigel scratches his fingers through the dirt, but doesn’t go any further forward, more of an instinctual show of force than a way to propel himself.

Lee creeps closer, afraid Nigel might snap his hand off now that he’s spent a few minutes out of Lee’s inherent sphere of influence. “It’s just…” He pauses, also apparently having no idea what to say. “Well,” Lee tries again, “I thought, um. Since—well, because—”

“Spit it out, arcan.” Nigel’s teeth grind together so hard, Lee’s own hurt in sympathy. “Am I supposed to be more grateful that you wanted me to lie beside your bed?”

And that’s...not exactly what Lee expected to hear. “Is that what you’re used to?”

“It’s where a familiar pulding  _ sleeps!” _ Nigel’s hand twitches toward the mats. “That’s your bed, and the ground is mine. Knew you weren’t any pulding different.”

“Nigel,” says Lee, trying to keep his voice level, to quell the quickly growing disgust for every other arcan Nigel has ever encountered, “the bed is yours.”

His scoff tapers off into a groan. “To warm it, then.”

“No.” Carefully, Lee scoots around into Nigel’s line of sight, sitting at the head of the bed, back against the shelves. “It’s only yours, Ursa.”

Lee has seen the same gleam present in Nigel’s eyes on the animals he releases from hunters’ traps, the fight between disbelieving wonder and terrible fear and unbelievable rage at having the first and second emotions. There’s always an element of gratitude, albeit reluctant, or else poorly concealed. With an animal, however, trust is gained swiftly; all it takes is good care and soft words. That isn’t going to be the case here, no matter how Nigel looks at him.

Even so, there’s the faintest tinge of pink to Nigel’s aura, and that’s shocking, too. Lee has never sensed gratitude in an injured creature’s aura, if only because they don’t have one. Even further proof that a Wehr is as much of a person as any full human; if Nigel was only an animal, then there wouldn’t be an aura to read in the first place.

Another blink, and the aura’s gone, seemingly suppressed.  _ A matter of trust, then, _ Lee decides.  _ An allowance of vulnerability. _ He vows to earn that same trust from Nigel, or else seriously injure himself in the attempt.

It’s hard to pull away from the maelstrom of Nigel’s stare, but Lee manages, then holds out his hands. “Please, Ursa,” he says, calmly, respectfully. “Please, let me help you.”

Nigel keeps staring—Lee worries for a suspended breath if Nigel’s preparing to tap some reserved well of energy and launch an attack—but ultimately reaches back. Lee smiles kindly, and pulls, rolling Nigel onto the bed so that he lies on his stomach.

“I’m going to try and rebandage this—”

“It’s already bandaged,” Nigel snaps. “You wrapped it up earlier.”

Lee brushes off the gruffness; he thinks he’ll be getting accustomed to doing so before this is all over. “You likely didn't notice,” he begins, groping around on the shelf behind him for the sewing bag he hopes is still there, “but I respected your unspoken wishes and didn’t look at it. Therefore, it hasn’t been properly dressed.”

“But there’s no pulding point.” Nigel sounds more resigned than exhausted. “We both know it won’t heal.”

“It still needs to be cleaned and cared for.”  _ So do you. _ “I need to sew up the broken edges to keep it from getting infected.” Lee rummages around in the cloth sack; there’s a birdbone needle, thankfully, which he holds against the nearest arcanstone to heat.

“Again, arcan—and you should have your ears looked at. I have to keep repeating myself.”

Lee snorts, laying the needle on one of the patches, then holds the shears up to the stone, instead. “I’ll have to ask Peter if he understands human anatomy as well as he does horses.”

An uncomfortable pause. “I don’t want to pulding touch that one.”

“Neither did the arcanite who pissed Peter off, but we don’t always get what we want.”

“Anyway, there’s no point to treating it if it won’t change the fact that it’s there.”

“Humor me, then.” Lee begins to snip off the fabric wrapped over Nigel’s shoulder and haphazardly across the brand. “I said I’d protect you; I can hardly do that if you’re dead, now can I?”

“Not one of  _ those _ arcans, then?” Lee’s overt disgust makes Nigel laugh, but it turns into a low whine almost immediately.

Lee tries to cut and peel the bandages more quickly. “I’m sorry, Ursa.”

“It’s alri—pulding  _ pulda, _ puld me and curse you,” says Nigel, panting. “Changed my mind. That  _ was _ your fault.”

“It thought it would be best to rip it off rather than prolonging the experience.” Lee sets down the bloodied fabric and the shears, then begins to stroke Nigel’s head. He keeps petting Nigel, fingers drawn to his hair, his skin. Bad habits from living with forest animals, Lee supposes, but Nigel doesn’t seem to mind.

Nigel’s breathing begins to even out, and Lee wishes they could keep sitting here like this, that he could let Nigel rest in his lap to keep soothing him. The atmosphere is peaceful and quiet, in spite of the reason they’re here in Lee’s burrowed room. But Nigel’s back continues to bleed, so Lee stops as soon as Nigel’s muscles relax.

The silence lingers until Lee pours the rosewinkle solution over the brand—it makes Nigel scream, muffled behind his clenched teeth. Lee can’t cry, won’t cry, won’t let anything obscure his vision. He’s never seen rosewinkle practically scald skin before. It stings, but never causes any pain as terrible as what Nigel seems to be feeling. The solution is flushing out dirt and a few loose flakes of congealed silver; Lee guesses that’s what’s responsible.

“I have another lampam potion,” Lee offers as Nigel shivers beneath his open hand, palm flat on his shoulder. “I was going to wait to give it to you. I had no idea the rosewinkle would hurt so much.”

Nigel doesn’t say anything, only nods, head jerking.

“Can you sit up? No, wait,” says Lee, “I have a better idea.” He shuffles over enough to get Nigel’s head onto his thigh, turned to the side, facing him. It takes a significant amount of effort, but Lee finally grabs the strap to his pack, dragging it to him. Sure enough, there’s the bundle of hollow reeds Lee had intended to use as stakes for his tomato plants; one fits neatly into the glass bottle. “Drink through this,” Lee tells Nigel.

“Don’t—”

“Familiarize you, I know. I won’t, Nigel." Never mind that Lee couldn't if he wanted to, not with the silver in Nigel's back. "Inferness strike me down and raise my ancestors soulless if I should even think of doing it.”

That seems to be enough guarantee for Nigel. While he drinks the potion, Lee fumbles with his other hand, searching for a jar of water. He grips it between his thighs— _ Oh pit; we’re still naked. _ —and opens it, then transfers the reed.

“Water,” he says. “You must be thirsty.”

“Yeah.” Nigel gulps the water greedily. “Yeah,” and a trickle of water falls from the corner of his mouth, “it’s been a while.”

Lee’s chest aches. His hand idly rubs the back of Nigel’s neck, and Lee hums nonsense until Nigel falls asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick shout-out to darkpriestess and Wens for their comments on the previous chapter. ilu <3
> 
> Looking for more rare pair fun? Check out the brand new [Hannibal Extended Universe](http://archiveofourown.org/tags/Hannibal%20Extended%20Universe/works) tag! (We're also [here](http://archiveofourown.org/tags/Hannibal%20Extended%20Universe%20-%20Fandom/works), but the first tag is the one you can filter and follow.) If you haven't heard about this on tumblr or twitter, the HEU is a new place for all of our beloved rare pairs to live to keep them separate from the main Hannibal (TV) tag. And now, we can find more fics and discover more rare pairs! Hooray!
> 
> I'll be posting more info about how the HEU is going to work within the next few days over on tumblr. Until then, please spread the word! Let your favorite authors know about [this particular Hannibal Extended Universe additional tag](http://archiveofourown.org/tags/Hannibal%20Extended%20Universe/works); encourage other fannibals to support the switch; most importantly, keep up the rare pair love. ;D
> 
> (Also please send a box of cookies to your local tag-wrangler. This wouldn't have been possible without their help.)

**Author's Note:**

> [[about me](http://shiphitsthefan.tumblr.com/about)] [[tumblr](http://shiphitsthefan.tumblr.com/)] [[twitter](https://twitter.com/shiphitsthefan)]
> 
> Feel free to come flail with me about BearDogs! Or my precious son, Lee Fallon. Or Hannigram in general. I enjoy flailing.
> 
> There's a [Pinterest board](https://www.pinterest.com/shiphitsthefan/ficursa-major-arcana/) for this fic, because I'm hopelessly addicted to Pinterest.
> 
> And, as always, kudos and comments validate my existence. <3


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